


Untitled

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-10
Updated: 2005-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Written for Aibhinn.





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

He hasn't moved in what seem hours, gazing into the fireplace, oblivious to the whispers and muted activity around him. Ginny wonders what Harry sees in the dancing flames, wonders what thoughts are spinning through his mind. They must be spinning, surely. She knows hers would have been, had she been the one whiling away the hours until dawn before facing He Who---

Fiddlesticks. If Harry can name him, so can she. Voldemort. She wouldn't, couldn't appear nearly as calm, were she the one facing Voldemort at sunrise. Surely he must be afraid of what might happen. Surely he wonders if…

No, she has to stop thinking this way. Hermione and Ron certainly aren't, hovering protectively nearby, just in case he decides to look away from the flames and speak. Neville isn't, his round face drawn into a fierce scowl as he feverishly whispers the incantations to any number of spells and hexes, trying to fix them one last time in his memory. Seamus and Dean aren't, nor are Lavender and Parvati, huddled together in nearby armchairs and speaking in low murmurs, slanting occasional glances to the lone figure standing before the fireplace.

And he is alone, Ginny realises. Never mind that he is surrounded by friends and supporters in the Gryffindor common room, he is nonetheless alone. Everything depends upon him. The continuation of their entire way of life rests upon his narrow, seventeen-year-old shoulders. She thinks she might have buckled beneath such a burden long before now.

The common room empties slowly as the evening progresses, the tension ebbing with each departure to the dormitories as people carry their own fears and worries to bed with them. Ron and Hermione are the last to leave, Hermione still looking at Harry over her shoulder as Ron draws her away.

Ginny watches Harry watch the fire. If he is aware that they are the only two people remaining in the Gryffindor common room, he shows no sign.

Rising from the armchair, she pads across the room until she stands beside him, almost exactly where Hermione had been only minutes earlier. The fire, she notes, is little more than embers and ash, the logs flickering with a shimmering reddish glow that sends shadows dancing across the walls.

She doesn't speak, feeling that breaking the silence now would be inappropriate as well as unwelcome. He shifts slightly, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. The motion turns him toward her, only a fraction; but it's enough, signalling his willingness to accept her presence beside him. He doesn't tell her that the hour grows late and that she ought to be in bed with the others, reaching vainly for sleep. 

She wants to tell him that everything will be alright; that he'll emerge victorious tomorrow. She wants to tell him that he's not alone, not really; that he has his classmates and his professors and everyone else who's shaped and guided his life, preparing him for this moment. She wants to tell him that he's not alone.

She says none of these things. Instead, she turns so that she's facing him fully; ignoring the reckless urge driving her. She reaches up, cupping his cheek with her hand before drawing him down to her.

His lips are warm against her own, and dry and surprisingly soft. She hadn't thought that a boy's lips could be so soft. She lets her eyes drift shut, the better to concentrate on the sensation, not minding when she feels his palm cradle her cheek in turn and the kiss deepens.

She doesn't know how much time passes before he draws back, looking down at her, rather than at the fire, his fingers pushing away a stray lock of hair before he takes his hand in hers and leads her away from the fireplace and toward the dormitory.

Tonight, at least, he won't be alone.


End file.
